I love you, I trust you
by crispycrumblycrust
Summary: John's going for a run before dinner.


_This one is dark (again). I wanted to explore Gaskell's psyche and combine it with some headcanons that I have about his (mental) health aka 'let's see how many ideas I can squeeze in ~3k words!'._ _ _H_ ope things aren't too vague, ha_ _ _ _ven't put any warnings.__ Let me know if there are issues._

 _Title is taken from the song 'Trust you' by Yuna Ito._

* * *

John runs past a couple of walkers, catching only a hint of the conversation, but judging by the voices they're blowing off steam after a tiresome day.

In the distance, a dog sniffs the grass, tail waggling. He prefers cats, just as Rox, but Henrik will love it here: the nature, the peace and quiet, the animals – birds, insects, dogs...perhaps not _this_ dog as they notice him. John slows his pace, stares back at the canine, watching as the tail hides behind hindlegs, curling inside. They whine softly. This is nothing compared to their common ancestor, the wolf, an animal that can't be tamed.

He glances at the owner. She takes her eyes off him and pulls at the leash, urging their pet to remain close. They obey after much tugging. John shakes his head. This lack of discipline and strength makes him laugh.

He passes the misfits, passes a hiker, another hiker. He frowns as he notices people are staring at him as he follows the dirt road. Some raise their brows, some falter in their steps, some smile at him, but it's a fake smile. They're judging him, keeping an eye on him, waiting until they find a fault and can expose him-

John counts his breathing, _one, two,_ _one_ , _two,_ like the beating of his heart _._ _Strong and steady._ The wind grazes his cheeks. The sun shines brightly on him.

He squints his eyes and quickens his step, focusing only on his body and nothing else until he's reached _bliss_.

He exhales, slows to a walking pace. This is a good kind of exhaustion. His legs ache in the most wondrous way. His lungs demand _more_ _air,_ _more, more,_ more, _please_. The subtle line between pleasure and pain feels almost like a cleansing. This is better than a long, but successful surgery that leaves him tired, cramped, and _hungry._

John glances down and hisses, seeing the bulge straining against his trackpants. He leans against the nearest tree he can find and closes his eyes. It's hardly the first time this has happened, but every time this surprises him, this...this _inconvenience_ _,_ is what Henrik will say.

He twitches, the motions painful against his boxers. He grinds his teeth, forces his mind to grapple at graphic images. Thinking about Henrik only makes everything worse. But John can't keep him out of his mind, like a firefly drawn towards the light. Henrik isn't even appearing in a particular, _distracting_ way. Henrik in scrubs usually leaves him...conflicted. Sometimes, he needs to take a quick bathroom break afterwards.

He leans his head against the tree trunk and groans. The rough bark digs into his skin. It's not enough. He must dig further, _deeper._ He forces himself to think about butchered ops, permanent spinal damage, _death_. It's not working, just as the trial isn't working.

His breathing hitches.

Nothing will be left of Holby's reputation. Henrik will be disappointed, will walk away from him and never return, because they differ too much...because they're too similar. Because, because, because, never despite.

He raises a hand, scrubs his face. His palm and fingers meet dampness. His cheeks. He touches one side, then the other, stares at the evidence: fingertips stained with wetness. _Tears._

John breaths out, a long, wheezing, shaking noise, but at least below he's...behaving. No sign that he was hard just moments ago.

He fishes out his car keys, curls his hand around them, knowing they'll leave indents in the skin and beings the slow trot back to his car.

* * *

The first thing John notices is the heavenly smell. His mouth waters as he closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Henrik is spoiling him again. He smiles, reminds himself to close the door, to contain everything inside his flat.

His smile widens when he notices a pair of shoes – big, black and polished. He takes his off and carefully aligns them beside Henrik's, making sure they don't touch.

He throws his gym bag over one shoulder. The strap digs into his hand. John doesn't glance at the living room, a sparsely furnished space just as the rest of his flat at his own request. He rarely sets foot here, only returns for a shower, rest or food.

When Rox was here, she's brightened this place. And himself. She's brought something that only she possesses. She bought flowers and matching vases. She bought cutlery and dishes.

They've taken several, long shopping trips. She caught his wrist, and later his hand, wouldn't let go, muttering how empty and impersonal his flat was.

She's bought two more chairs. _F_ _or me and_ _H_ _enrik, she said,_ _seeing him raising an eyebrow._

Also a couch. A big couch. _N_ _othing is complete without a couch, she joked when he's returned one day and saw this addition,_ _but her eyes were serious_.

So many hours are spend lounging on it, stretched limbs and using the other as a pillow. Later they snuggled in bed, each listening to the other's breathing and feeling the other's heart beat until they fall asleep.

After Rox has left, when she's considered herself recovered, when loneliness, guilt, and grief aren't crippling her anymore, John's collected every trace of her and put it in storage. Except the two chairs and the couch. He couldn't set everything on fire, creating a bonfire so bright it could be seen from space. He couldn't toss everything in the trash, because it's Rox.

He sighs, tightens the hold on his bag. What's done is done, even if he still misses her presence here. Every day. It's not the same seeing her at work, the greetings every morning, the farewells every evening.

But no matter. Henrik's here now.

John finds him puttering away in the kitchen. He leans on the doorway, tilts his head and stares at this wonderful sight. He's here, Henrik's really here – _willingly –_ in his flat, wearing a warm sweater and soft trousers and an apron John rarely uses anymore.

He strains his ears. No noise, no voice, no nuisance. All because of Henrik. John wonders if he will loan him his music player if he asks nicely...

He inhales deeply, catches a whiff of Henrik's cologne and the underlying scent that's unique to him. His heart always beats faster, even if Henrik always grounds him too.

He smiles and comes closer, like an addict reaching for his choice of poison. But the food is closer, temps him too.

Before he can sneak in a quick taste, Henrik says, "Shower, first."

His back is turned to him, showcasing his figure and the elaborate knot of the apron. Henrik's keen sense always surprises him. He can always pinpoint where John is.

Sometimes John still can't believe this is happening, _No_ , he reminds himself that this is real, this is reality, this is the truth _._

Focus, _focus_.

His gaze lands on Henrik standing near the counter. He considers cornering him, caging him in, perhaps even kissing him on the cheek. Depending on how Henrik's reaction – permission to proceed or a sign to give him space – he will react accordingly. But he's sweat soaked and knows that this warm, welcoming sight can change in a beat. From warm and cozy to cold and dark.

He glances out the window, sees that the sun is beginning to set. He obeys for now and leaves, but he can't help but notice that the stove is already switched off. John wonders for a moment, if he rests a palm on the surface, will the skin burn, or will he meet coldness?

It doesn't matter, because he's now in his bedroom.

He carelessly throws his bag aside and kicks it in a corner. He smiles at the clean set of clothes – boxers, faded sweatpants, t-shirt – waiting for him on the bed. He strips, leaves a trail of clothes behind, leading to the bathroom.

While he's waiting for the water to warm, his body still aches from his run. The _drip_ drip _drip_ dripcalms and almost hypnotizes him-

He can't help it. _Simply a_ _n urge that needs to be taken care of once in a while,_ _nothing more, nothing less_ _,_ Henrik's explained flatly once upon a time, back when John still struggled with this idea that pleasure, desire, _love_ doesn't always equal long, passionate kisses and reaching absolute bliss multiple times a night. For Henrik, this is merely a chore, meaningless and trivial, sating his body's natural function.

His eyebrows raise. Henrik's definition of _once in a while_ differs from his. Polar opposites, one might say: more than several times a week for John, and Henrik...who knows what the time interval is? Once a week? Once every fortnight? Once a month?

Before John knows it, it's happened. He's finished quickly this time. If not for a quick peek at the water cleaning the evidence, he won't have thought this has just happened.

He stares, _stares_ until the cubicle fogs up and his shoulders and back sting. It's the pain, not the lingering euphoria that makes him adjust the temperature. He quickly rinses himself, ignoring his body aching from the heat.

Once he's back he checks his phone on the corner of the bed. No activity.

He dresses and picks up his phone, holds it in one hand and makes a beeline for the kitchen.

Henrik's not there.

...No.

Cold terror seizes him.

No, no, no, _no, no_ _._

His hands shake. Some dreams end this way. First, they fill him with warmth and fuzziness, lull him into a false sense of security and peace before everything changes to a frozen, barren nightmare where there's no escape, no way to fix things.

Black spots appear in his vision and move around, like tiny spiders gliding across invisible cobwebs.

He glances behind him. Files and papers are strewn across the living room. His audiophone is on the ground. John thinks he's thrown it there but isn't sure. His tablet is on the table – battery empty – laptop on the couch. A blank word page stares back at him. The one thing that's tidy, that should be draped over the couch, isn't there. Henrik's thick overcoat is nowhere to be seen.

For a moment, all that reaches him are the smells of disinfectant, stainless steel and blood. His breathing quickens and sweat forms on his back, his forehead. He winces. He has _just_ showered.

He turns around-

 _There_ he is. In the kitchen. As if Henrik's never left. He's still preparing dinner.

John wants to help, but knows Henrik will nip his efforts in the bud. The silence that follows will be sharp, bitter and biting, like the arctic where the sun doesn't reach during winter.

In a way, John understands. He's the same. Nothing happens without his approval. He double checks everything before giving his consent.

It can be worse. Henrik might turn the tables on him. And a part of him wants to confide, lay all the cards on the table. But it's too late. It's too much, too. Saying these things out loud means he's wrong, means John's failed. And he hasn't, he trusts in himself. He has faith in himself. He _must_ have, for if even he doesn't, _who else will?_

He knows Henrik will listen. He will help. After all these years this hasn't changed. Henrik will do anything to ignore his own problems, play the savior.

He's been doing so much better. John's seen it with his own eyes. His observations corresponds with Roxanna's reports. This time Henrik's remained true to his words, he listens to and _interact_ _s_ with his therapist _._ She has joined several sessions, has extended the same offer to him.

But John always declines. Not needed. He's not sick. He's not _damaged_...he will not be the person undermining Henrik's progress, causing pain and sadness, forcing him to rely on old habits. He'll retreat and isolate himself again. There's only so many times one person can do this until the damage become permanent.

It doesn't matter, If there's 0,01% chance that his trial might fail, John will keep him at arm's length. Besides, Rox hasn't left him, even when a part of the truth was revealed. In fact, she's bloomed, showing new determination, a focus that almost rivals his.

He takes a seat – his seat – rests his chin on the palm of his hand and stares at Henrik without blinking. When his eyes begin to itch, he realises this may be a bit _too much._ He lowers his head and checks his phone.

"No phone on the table," Henrik chides him, his voice soft, but firm.

Just as well. No new messages.

Henrik has finished setting the table. A feast, enough to feed half a dozen people.

John can cook, has cooked for Rox many times. She will testify that he cooks _quite well._ He enjoys it too, experimenting with dishes, discovering new ways to use a spice, crossing cultural borders to create a new combination. But he doesn't see the point after she's left. Cooking for one always leaves a sad and pathetic taste in his mouth.

He stands, rounds the table and drags the chair back, nods towards it with a smirk. Henrik's answer is a fond shake of his head, but he accepts the gesture. When he's close, John hides a soft smile. He hides the urge to wrap his arms around him, kiss the back of his neck and lose himself in this unique, delirious scent. John knows such close...contact won't always be appreciated so he keeps his hands and desires to himself and nudges the chair back. He frowns at the lack of resistance. Has Henrik lost weight again? He regards him for a moment and shrugs. Must be a trick of the mind.

John sits opposite him and lowers his gaze, mouth watering at the sight on the table. He wants to start, already reaching for the nearest dish, but halts when his phone pings. He frowns, glances at Henrik, but he's shrouded in shadow, face hidden in the darkness. His frown deepens.

He swipes at his screen, sees the text message – _the sender –_ and freezes.

This must be a joke. This can't be happening. This isn't _real._

The sun has set. The room is dark, while a moment ago there was light. The screen illuminates his face, blinds him for a moment, as if someone is shining a bright flashlight in his eyes.

He doesn't know how much time passes after this as he stares and _stares and stares._

His neck twitches. One leg has fallen asleep, twitching as John tries to sit straighter. He winces when he picks up his cutlery. The food is stale and cold but he forces himself to eat, reminding himself that he needs the energy. He focuses only on the food and ignores everything else. When he's done, he leaves the table quietly, doesn't look back, doesn't ruminate on the silence and chilliness and _solitude_.

This place is suffocating him right now. He needs space. He needs to run. _No,_ _he needs Henrik,_ _he should be here, why isn't he here? Here?_

He finds and shrugs on a sports jacket. The place where Henrik's shoes should be is empty. John grits his teeth and almost forgets his keys. He leaves his car keys here, not in the mood to go back to the wood. It's dark there now, no lampposts lighting the path.

While taking the two flights of stairs down, he almost runs into a small group flocked together staring back at him. _Judging him._ They might be tenants or visitors or strangers – John doesn't know, he doesn't know anyone here. And he doesn't care to know. They're irrelevant.

Outside, he thinks about the gist of Henrik's message: a question about stats, about numbers and morbidity rate.

Short. Formal. Polite. As if they've become strangers again, as if Henrik doesn't trust him. As if Henrik's gone behind his back and done his own research.

John doesn't answer. Doesn't erase it either, not the way he's tossed so many of Abigail's unread mails in the recycle bin, not the way he's ignored voicemails from his assistants, from other members of his team or associates. He's trying to do better with Rox, but it's hard to fight against habits and often times he forgets the messages she's left. By the time they're noticed, the news has become old and he doesn't see the point of answering anymore.

He feels a gaze on him. A passerby glances at him funnily and takes a few steps aside.

He shakes his head and glances down at his phone. He wishes the message has changed, but it hasn't. When he stares closer, drops of water are blurring the words, distorting them until they've become unreadable. He pretends it's only raindrops, convinces himself that his cheeks are wet only from rain.

A pair of women, young and old, pass him in a hurry. They don't make eye contact.

He pockets his phone and starts to jog, running away. He thought that was Henrik's specialty. It's ironic. Henrik is slowly but surely recovering, while John is losing grip on everything with each passing day. So many matters that need monitoring, so many things he's juggling. Twenty four hours has lost meaning, and sometimes he wishes he can split himself, be in several places at the same time.

He wants to be with Henrik, right now. But he's somewhere else, alone. Likely at the hospital. Or at home. But it doesn't matter, because it seems they'll never be on the same side.

John chuckles.

Individual patients at odds with the medical community, the excitement and wonder of former colleagues slowly turning into cold feet and caution... It's always the same thing. Don't they know that he has the power to change things? If they just give him more time, more resources, _freedom..._

He's thought at least one person will be by his side: Henrik. That's the reason why he's even here, why he's chosen this mediocre hospital and embraced this team.

But no, seems he's alone, too. It's how he's started everything, his life, his career, this trial. It's how everything will end, with John vs the world.


End file.
